


The Lesson

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [32]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, It's For a Case, McDonald’s, Road Trips, teaching an oik a lesson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Strike and Robin encounter an impatient young man on their way back from a case.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Denmark Street musings [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1035698
Comments: 22
Kudos: 53





	The Lesson

“D’you know what I fancy?” Strike asked suddenly.

“Mm?” Robin was only half listening, rummaging in her handbag for toffees, but she glanced up as Strike flicked the indicator on and swung the BMW into the inside lane.

“A Big Mac.” He waved at the familiar golden M of his favourite fast food outlet ahead. “And before you say anything, the diet has been going very well, and I’m allowed a treat.”

Robin cast him a sideways glance. “I wasn’t going to say anything. Beyond maybe admitting that a McChicken Sandwich wouldn’t go amiss.”

He shot her a grin that made her errant heart flip, as always. He was quite correct that his diet and the time he was spending at the swimming pool were doing their job. She could hardly fail to notice the increased breadth to his shoulders and decreased swell of his stomach. He looked good, good enough to deliver quite a jolt to her equilibrium if she allowed her gaze to linger too long.

She buried her face in her bag again to hide her fond smile. She was sure she had half a bag of toffees in here, under an accumulation of receipts, random bits of paper scrawled with notes and the debris of various other snacks that were a necessary part of a road trip with her burly partner.

Robin was in no hurry to get back to her flat. It had been a pleasant, if unusual, way to spend their Saturday, on a trip together. It had been a bit of a drive to the northern outskirts of London to check out the supposed mistress of the man they were investigating on behalf of his wife. Said mistress ran a beauty parlour in Borehamwood; Robin had had her nails done and managed to fish information about the woman’s boyfriend from her, including confirmation of his unusual first name, while Strike had scouted out her house, pretending to wash the windows whilst taking pictures of anything he could see that their client might be able to identify as belonging to her husband. He’d joked afterwards about the neighbours potentially wondering why she was only having the downstairs windows washed, but he wasn’t going to risk climbing a ladder. Or indeed going through the faff of having to procure one.

They’d gathered what would probably constitute enough evidence, a job well done, and were almost back to the lockup where Strike kept the BMW. Robin had nothing else to do with her weekend but her usual laundry and cleaning, and she didn’t want to chip her smart new nails. Manicures were something her budget didn’t stretch to these days; it had been a lovely treat to have it done on expenses. She’d been half hoping Strike might suggest they go to the pub, but McDonald’s was the next best thing, she supposed.

They pulled off the road into the car park and Strike slowed the car. They gazed in dismay at the packed tables inside and out, the queues.

“Drive-through,” Strike said succinctly, and Robin nodded. She had no more desire to join such a throng than he did. Strike’s strong forearms circled the steering wheel, swinging the BMW across to join the snaking line around the outside of the restaurant.

This queue, too, was quite long. They inched forward. Another car had already joined behind them.

Robin sat back with a smile. They could eat, share any more thoughts on the case. She wondered if she might suggest herself that they go for a drink afterwards. They would cut an odd couple in the pub, she mused - she’d dressed up a little to play her part as someone who was at home in a beauty parlour, in a belted jumpsuit and low-heeled sandals, while Strike had dressed down for his window-cleaning role. She’d half expected overalls, but he was in scruffy jeans and trainers and a grey T-shirt. It was so unusual to see his forearms, as he normally wore shirts in the office. But he must spend time in T-shirts, she mused, because his arms were tanned. They were thickly haired too, which had caused her traitorous mind to recall how hairy his chest and stomach were, and to wonder about the rest of him. The strength in his wrists as he drove and manipulated steering wheel and transmission shift had been most distracting;she’d had to spend long chunks of the journey gazing out of the window instead.

The queue was progressing slowly but steadily; it would soon be their turn.

Taking advantage of being off the road, Strike stretched himself back, straightening his leg so he could pull his mobile from his pocket. He passed it across to Robin.

“See what you think of the pictures,” he said. “I got quite a few from the back windows. Had to be a bit more careful at the front, in case neighbours were watching. Shame his car wasn’t around. I walked a few local streets but I didn’t spot it.”

Robin nodded, taking the phone. It was warm from being in his pocket.

“Passcode?”

Strike told her and she keyed it in. Unsurprisingly, the home screen was a plain generic background. (Hers was a picture of Rowntree, the now elderly family dog who still lived with her parents.) She found the photos folder and scrolled down to the most recent, opened it and started to work back.

“Men’s shoes in the hall,” she mused.

“Yeah, fairly generic brown brogues, though. Hard to prove from a mobile phone picture if they’re his.”

Robin flicked through a few more. “Oh, is that a guy’s jacket slung on the dining chair?”

Strike inched the car forward. “I think so. It was hard to tell, it was just kind of scrunched. But that contrast collar is unusual, the wife might recognise it.”

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t got to the piece de resistance, though.”

Robin flicked though a few more pictures. “What am I—? Oh!”

Strike grinned. “That’ll do it, you think?”

Robin giggled. “Yeah, men’s boxers on the washing line is a pretty good clue.”

“Yup.” Strike looked very pleased with himself.

“Except...”

“What?” He cast her a suspicious glance as he inched the car forward again.

“She’s got a son. I didn’t get exactly how old he is, but he was off playing rugby while she did my nails. So could well be a teenager.”

“Hm. And well-built enough to wear men’s size boxers. Damn.”

“Yeah. Still worth showing the wife, though. Could the shoes and coat be the son’s?”

Strike pulled a face. “A rugby-playing teen in brown brogues?”

“Yeah.” Robin pulled a doubtful face, pursing up her lips. “Doesn’t sound likely.”

They’d reached the ordering point. Strike wound the window down and leaned towards the speaker.

“What can I get you?” the disembodied, tinny voice asked.

“A large Big Mac meal with bacon and a coke,” Strike replied.

“Any sauces?”

“Barbecue, please.”

“Anything else?”

Strike turned back into the car. “Robin?”

Robin dragged her attention from the phone. “Oh, I haven’t thought. What day is it?”

Strike stared at her. “Saturday. What has that got to do with it?”

Robin chuckled. “Different specials on different days.” She leaned across, her golden head almost on his shoulder. “What’s the special?” she called into the microphone.

“A Greek salad chicken wrap—”

“Ooh, I’ll have that!”

“—but we haven’t got any. Ran out.”

Robin took a slow, patient breath. “Could have led with that fact,” she muttered, and Strike chuckled.

“Um—” Robin cast her eyes down the menu. “Er...”

The car behind them honked its horn. Strike turned in his seat to glare, his face inches from Robin’s, and she pulled back, flustered suddenly. They were a lot closer these days, good friends, but to have his face inches from hers— She could feel a flush rising up her cheeks, and willed her body to calm down. “Um...”

The car hooted again, and Strike leaned towards his window. “All right!” he yelled. “Sorry, not you,” he added to their unseen server.

“I’ll just have a McChicken Sandwich regular meal,” Robin said hurriedly.

Strike turned to look at her. “You sure? Don’t let some spotty oik in a souped-up Fiesta hassle you. He looks about seventeen.”

“Anything else?” came the server’s voice again.

“I’m sure.”

“Have what you like—”

“Cormoran, it’s fine. Just order and let’s go.”

The lad behind leaned hard on his horn, an extended blast, making a rude gesture at them that Strike could clearly see in the rear view mirror. Robin was scarlet now.

Strike set his mouth into a firm line.

“A McChicken Sandwich regular meal with a strawberry milkshake, please,” he called. “That’s the lot, thanks.” And he slid the car into drive and pulled forward smoothly.

Robin breathed easier as they moved on towards the pay point.

“Are you okay?” Strike asked her quietly.

“I’m fine,” she assured him.

“Someone needs to teach that kid some manners.”

Robin turned to face her big partner. “It’s fine,” she said. “Please don’t say anything.”

Strike cast her a sideways look as he pulled up to the pay window. “I’m not going to,” he replied. “I’m going to teach him how he should behave.”

“Oh, God, how?” Robin stared at him in alarm.

He grinned. “Like this.” He leaned towards the freckled assistant in the window with her hair scraped back under a uniform hat who was quoting their price and holding out a chip and PIN machine. She looked as bored as Robin imagined one might feel, endlessly taking payments all day. Strike fished his wallet from his pocket and tapped the card across the reader.

“Thanks,” he said. “Oh, and the car behind us, the Fiesta?”

Robin’s heart sank.

“Can I pay for his meal, too, please?” Strike asked, with his best charming grin.

If the young assistant thought this unusual or a delightful gesture, she gave no sign. She punched a few buttons on her till, named the price and held out the card reader again. Robin watched in wonder and surprise as Strike tapped his card once more. The assistant tore off two receipts and passed them across.

“Thank you,” Strike said, flashing her his big grin again, but boredom had rendered her oblivious. Strike put the receipts between his teeth and pulled the BMW forwards to queue for the next window.

He became aware of Robin’s gaze on him. His eyes slid sideways and found hers. “What?”

She shook her head a little, a smile playing around her mouth. “Every so often, Cormoran Strike, you really surprise me,” Robin replied, her voice soft with wonder. “That was really big of you. Repaying meanness with kindness.”

Strike shrugged.

“I mean it. The world needs more of that.”

“Mm,” Strike replied noncommittally.

They BMW pulled forward towards the next window. Robin grinned and gazed straight ahead, her heart full of fondness.

Behind them at the paying window, the Fiesta bipped its horn just a little, and the young lad waved, giving them a thumbs-up.

The final assistant in their chain stuck a hand out. Strike slid the car smoothly into park mode and pulled the receipts from his mouth. He handed theirs over, and food began to be passed.

Strike and Robin executed the usual juggle as he passed her the drinks and she wedged them into the cup holders and then took possession of the food.

“Thanks,” Strike said to the server as he was passed out little packets of barbecue sauce and ketchup. Then, carefully not looking at Robin, he passed the other receipt across.

Before Robin, still juggling two packets of food and checking that the drinks were secure, had worked out what was going on, Strike had plonked another parcel in her lap.

“Um, what’s this?” Confused, Robin shuffled the three food packets while Strike pushed the lever into drive and pulled the BMW away from the window.

“Fiesta Twat’s order.” A smug smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Robin blinked down at the packet, and across at her partner. “You took his food?”

Strike nodded. “Yup.”

“But— But that’s stealing!”

“No, it’s not. I paid for it.”

“But— You can’t do that—” Robin twisted in her seat, staring back at the young man in his car arguing with the server at the delivery window.

“Watch me,” Strike replied, pulling the BMW back out into the traffic and resuming their journey towards central London.

Robin would have had a hand over her mouth if she hadn’t been clutching three packets of food. The warm, delicious smell of fries filled the car. “What’s he supposed to do now?”

Strike shrugged, a smirk twisting his uneven lips. “Join the back of the queue. And be a bit more patient this time.”

Shocked, Robin burst into giggles. Grinning, Strike glanced across at her. “Did you really think I was going to reward that greasy little tosser for behaving like a greasy little tosser?”

Robin was still laughing. “I guess not.”

“Well, then.” Eyes back on the road, Strike pulled the car out into the next lane. “If we can just get beyond the next couple of sets of lights, we should be able to pull in somewhere and eat.”

Robin turned to look behind them again. “Aren’t you worried he’ll follow us?”

Strike snorted. “No.”

She turned back to face the front, food warm on her lap, and tried very hard to tell herself that it would have been far more attractive had Strike really been being kind, leading by example. But there was something about the lazy confidence, the brazen cheek with which he’d executed the move, the command he’d taken over the situation without the need for typical male posturing or self-righteousness that was doing fluttery things to her libido.

A grin pulled at the side of her mouth, and she gazed out of the window again.

“Here,” Strike said suddenly, flicking the indicator on again, and he pulled the BMW across into the inside lane and then smoothly into a space between parked cars. They were in front of a row of shops, a newsagent and a bookie’s, a nail salon that was much seedier than the one Robin had visited earlier, a Turkish supermarket. A little further along, a small cafe had tables arranged on the pavement, and next to that, a young man in a beanie, wrapped in a sleeping bag despite the warmth of the day, huddled in a doorway. It was a ubiquitous piece of suburban London.

Strike parked and killed the engine. Robin started to pass him his food, but he was reaching for the door handle.

“One sec,” he said, and pulled himself out of the car. He slammed the door, and Robin watched as he limped, slow and stiff, around the front of the bonnet. He was coming to her door, and she pressed the button to wind the window down.

“Which one’s the twat’s food?”

Robin handed over the parcel, and Strike opened it and peered in. “Big Mac too, excellent,” he muttered. “Be right back.” And he walked off.

Nonplussed, Robin watched as he limped away, his gait slowly becoming more even as he loosened up from their time in the car. By the time he reached the young homeless guy, he was walking normally - or as normally as he ever did.

Robin watched, a lump in her throat suddenly, as Strike handed over the food. He lingered for a few minutes, chatting. They were too far away for Robin to hear anything, but she was struck by her partner’s easy demeanour. She picked idly at her fries while Strike pulled out his cigarettes, offered the young man one and lit it for him. He handed over a couple more from the packet and the young man tucked them into his shirt pocket, and then they shook hands and Strike was making his way back towards her.

Robin busied herself getting her burger out while Strike settled himself back into the car with a grunt and a sigh.

“Shouldn’t have got up,” he remarked, reaching for his food. “Need a piss now.”

Robin huffed a little acknowledgement. “Yeah, me too. Not far now, though.”

“No,” he agreed, unwrapping his burger and taking a huge bite.

Robin sank her teeth into hers too, and watched the young man finishing his cigarette, his parcel of food clutched in his lap.

She turned to look at her partner, who had demolished most of the rest of his burger with his second bite, barbecue sauce running down his chin. He paused and looked at her staring at him.

“What?” he demanded indistinctly round a mouthful of bun and beef patty.

A smile bloomed across Robin’s face, lighting her up suddenly. “Nothing.”

Strike swallowed and scrubbed at his chin with a cheap napkin. “You’re looking at me weird.”

Robin pulled her attention back to her burger. “No, I’m not.” She took another bite, much daintier than his.

Strike pulled a handful of fries from his bag and stuffed them in his mouth.

There was a pause that stretched, just a tiny bit longer than—

“D’you fancy the Tottenham later?” Robin blurted.

Strike nodded eagerly. “Good plan,” he replied, his mouth full of fries. “We can compare notes on today.”

Robin nodded, hiding her smile in the strawberry milkshake that he’d known without asking that she’d want. “Yes,” she conceded. “We could do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Tom Burke ❤️


End file.
